I.S.

And I most of all miss hearing your breathing. The proof of your soul’s existence. Evidence of our lack of care for space. When we have the room to ourselves and you would rather keep to the bed with me.

You place your cold hands on my shoulders. I take them in mine and kiss them, warming them with my own breath. Proof of my soul’s existence.

You kiss my forehead.

You fall asleep, your hands in mine. I fall asleep, your lips on mine.

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